I Want To Sleep But I Hear Voices
by andstilltheyechome
Summary: A new family is moving into the Murder House but, as Violet soon discovers, twins Effie and Dean are different - they can see the dead whether they want to be seen or not. The other dead are restless, and Violet, Tate, Effie and Dean are now in trouble.
1. Chapter 1

I Want To Sleep But I Hear Voices

Chapter One

**Violet**

It's funny how when you have all the time in the world, suddenly it all just blurs into one. The lines of one day blend into the next like melting water, and before you know it every day is the same day. I'd like to make every day a Saturday, but time holds no meaning for me any more.

A new family is being shown the house today. They've just arrived, and from my perch on the stairs I watch them. Marcy spews out the same old spiel – Tiffany fixtures, blah blah blah. Who really gives a damn about Tiffany fixtures anyway?

This family is different to the usual ones. I knew it as soon as they walked in. They didn't gush over the décor, grin at the price. They entered almost tentatively, like they had opened the wardrobe into Narnia. A middle-aged couple and their son and daughter, who both look to be about my age. Twins, I heard the mom mention. Finally, people my own age. The last two families had young kids. We didn't have to chase them out of the house because they never bought it once they heard the back story. The kids were scared enough by then; we would have given them nightmares for months if we'd had to chase them away. But this family is better, different, a good different. English, too, I could tell as soon as the parents opened their mouths to speak. That got Marcy all psyched, saying how much she loves England, how much they're going to love California, especially this house.

The parents follow Marcy into the front room, leaving the brother and sister loitering in the hallway. The boy is tall, scraping six foot. His hair is short and auburn, the same colour as his sister's. The girl has shoulder-length hair, poker straight with patterned feather extensions framing one side of her face. I notice she's wearing Converses, olive green with purple laces. I already feel less easy about chasing them away.

They both have their eyes trained on the ceiling like they're looking for mould. But their expressions are quizzical, almost as if they're listening for something. "You feel that?" the boy says.

"Yeah," the girl replies. They drop their heads and look at each other, speaking in hushed tones. "How many, do you think?"

The boy exhales, thinking. "I dunno. Ten? Maybe more?"

"That's so many," the girl exclaims. "What the hell happened here?"

Something clicks in my head, jammed cogs whirring back to life, as I realise what they're talking about. Us. The dead trapped in this house. But they can't be. I'm invisible, sat on these steps, and everyone else will be doing the same. Won't they?

The boy shakes his head. "No idea. But something bad."

"No shit Sherlock," the girl retorts, slapping her brother on the arm and lightening the mood.

"Dean! Effie!" A shout from the front room and, hearing their names, the twins disappear out of sight.

Then I hear those fateful words. "We'll take it."

**Tate**

I watch her watching them. Another day, another family. They're different, somehow, and I know Violet feels it too. Maybe this family could work out, maybe Violet won't be so alone any more. Maybe I-

That's if the Harmon's and Moira don't have their way. They always have their way.

This could change everything.

**Effie**

We're moving into our new house today. It's a new house, a new country, a new life. I can hear the removal men talking to each other in strained voices as they manoeuvre the sofa downstairs. It took so long for our furniture to be shipped over from England, but I made sure that my stuff was the first to be unpacked. I want to make this house feel like home as quickly as possible because, right now, it feels more like a graveyard.

I can feel their eyes on me, can hear their whispered conversations. They watch me when they think I'm not looking. But I'm always looking. I've been looking since I was seven.

The only thing that keeps me going is that I'm not alone. Dean, my twin. A different egg but we both have the same tie. It doesn't affect him like it does me. Dean can sleep at night. Nothing works for me. Mum and Dad say it's insomnia. They have it too, but they can knock themselves out with sleeping pills. I don't have insomnia. It's the fear that keeps me awake, the fear that one day my nightmares will bleed into the night and become reality.

The only problem is, that's already happened.

There's someone in my room with me. I continue to unpack a box like I don't know that something is wrong. My hands work mechanically, methodically, but my ears are trained on the slightest sound. I can hear the removal men downstairs, Mum directing them as to where the foot stool goes. Dad is in the kitchen, sorting out the appliances, and Dean is in the study setting up Dad's desk. So that only leaves one option.

I whip my head around, startling the girl more than myself. Her eyes are wide, her posture frozen. Her hair is long and a soft, dark blonde. She looks to be about my age. We stay like that for a second, eyes locked. I know I've had enough of this when the ghost is scared of me, rather than the other way around.

I turn back to the box I'm unpacking and say, "What do you want?" My voice is flat, unemotional. It's a comfort mechanism – make myself seem nonchalant to keep the fear at bay.

"Wait, you can see me?" the girl replies. The tone of her voice tells me that she hadn't made herself visible.

"Yep," I answer. "Doesn't make any difference to me whether you want to make yourself visible or not, I can see you either way."

"What?" I turn back to her and see her confused expression. She has one arm protectively wrapped over her waist. "But that's not possible."

I shrug. "Ghosts shouldn't be possible, but they are."

A thump from the corridor startles us both and Dad steps into the room. He can't see ghosts like Dean and I can. The girl remains where she is, watching my oblivious father. "Who were you talking to?" he asks.

The lie slips from my lips as easily as flowing water. "Myself," I say with a grin.

"First sign of madness," Dad jokes and points an accusing finger at me. "Where's your brother?"

"Here!" A voice pipes up and Dean steps into the door frame. His eyes flick from the girl, to me and back again. The girl, looking as confused as ever, turns to me with a turmoil of questions in her eyes. I nod my head slightly. Yes, Dean can see you too.

"Oh, good," Dad answers, turning to Dean. "Have you got my screwdriver? The good one?"

"Urm... yeah, it's in the study."

Dad trots off to the study, leaving the three of us alone. The girl is like piggy in the middle, trapped between two people who can see her whether she wants to be seen or not. "You can see me too?" she questions Dean, and he nods solemnly. The girl throws her hands up in defeat, shaking her head. She runs a hand through her hair and groans, "This is not happening."

Dean and I exchange a glance. I sympathise with the spirits. They go unnoticed for so long; they get used to being dead and then we turn up. "How can you see me?" she says, her voice high with disbelief. She opens her mouth to continue but no sound comes out.

"We can see all spirits," Dean explains, filling the gap for her. "We've been able too since we were seven. We don't know why."

Her breathing is laboured. She looks between the two of us. She tries to calm herself down and goes on, "You can see everyone in this house?"

Dean and I both nod. The girl takes a deep breath, and for a moment I think she's accepted it. Her expression hardens, but her eyes are still wild. "You need to leave."

"What?" I say.

"You need to leave," she continues, a little more desperate. "Look, this house isn't safe. There are people here who will hurt you. People who don't want you here. Especially not now. We were gonna make you leave, chase you out like we did with the others, but..." She falters and Dean snorts with derision.

"That would never have worked anyway," he says, amused. "Mum and Dad sleep like logs, then me and Effie know what to expect. Whatever it is, we can handle it."

Dean has always been too cocky for his own good. This time, I think he's wrong. I think we might just be in over our heads, because in that second another figure appears beside him in the doorway and says, "You think?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Violet**

Her words drip with self-indulgence and sadism. I'd know that voice anywhere. It's the voice that broke a marriage. Hayden.

She stands in the doorway beside Dean, who is trying, as casually as he can, to put a few more inches between himself and Hayden.

"So I hear we have a couple of freaks moving in," Hayden says, her smile perverse. "Do your parents know you're deluded?"

Dean glares at Hayden, beginning to understand now that this house isn't going to be so easy to conquer, but something in Effie's expression falters. Her eyes soften for just a second. Hayden's words got to her.

"Drop it, Hayden." I've had enough of Hayden's games to last an eternity. She tries to act like she loves being dead, that this life is a whole lot better than the one she led before. But you can see it in her eyes, concealed behind every fit of rage, roiling like a brewing storm – she hates what she's become. "They could help us."

She laughs and it goes straight through me. "Oh really? What can a couple of teenagers do about this house's growing infestation problem?"

"Have you made yourself visible?" Dean's words are sudden, shattering Hayden's train of thought. She glances at him, her smile wavering, and the smug smile he returns only makes it disappear altogether. I can't stop a smile of my own. "You haven't, have you." It's not a question.

There it is, that rage, seething in Hayden. She's lost – again – and she hates to admit it. Winning gives her meagre life a purpose. "One night," she snaps, her voice threatening to rise up an octave. And with that, she storms out of the room.

It's silent for a second as we listen to Hayden's footsteps retreating, stomping down the corridor like a sulking child. Then Effie says, "One night of what?"

"One night of her not being a complete bitch," I reply. That should be hard for her.

"Well what are we supposed to do in one night?" Effie continues, talking more to her brother than to me. "Do a rain dance and hope it washes away the dead? Dean, this isn't going to work. All you've done is bought us one undisturbed night to prove that we're the Ghostbusters. Which we're not."

"Look," I begin, stopping an argument before it can really start, "Hayden's just pissed because she's stuck in a house with a man she can't have and without the baby she wants. _She's_ the deluded one. I don't know if you can help us, maybe you can, but it's worth a try, isn't it? There are people here who need help."

Dean looks doubtful all of a sudden. After boasting about being able to handle anything he now doubts what he can do. They're not superheroes, I know that. But maybe they can help sort out all the shit that's happened in this place.

"We can try," Effie answers when her brother fails to speak for them. Her voice is laced with apprehension, but it grows with strength as she speaks. "We can't make any promises. I mean, we don't have special superpowers to banish evil spirits or anything like that. People only get stuck between this world and the next because they have a reason to stay behind. What we've learnt is that you just need... you just need to find out what it is that's keeping them here and sort out the problem. We've never really got it to work but... we can try." She cracks a smile, genuine and light, and I feel myself smiling in answer.

"Thanks. I'm Violet, by the way."

"It's nice to meet you Violet."

**Effie**

Our house back in England was haunted by a little boy and his mother, then two other unknown spirits that took to lurking in the shadows, who's only fun lay in terror. We tried to help them move on, to cross over to whatever's on the other side, but we were too young and naïve to really get to the root of the problem. It hurt leaving them behind to come to America. It felt like a shred of me got left in that old house, still trying to sort out the mess.

This house is different. It's a tangible, tangled web of lies and hurt and loss. I could reach out and the heavy air would break apart in my hand, giving way to all the pain it carries. But this house could also be redemption, to finish what Dean and I started. We're older now, old enough to realise that human relationships are a broken puzzle of complex fragments. We just have to put the pieces back together and then everyone can rest. The dead can move on and so can we.

There was one night in that old house when I couldn't sleep. I could never sleep, but that night was particularly bad. I could hear them, taunting me, but staying just out of sight. My only hopes of drowning them out was to put on some music. So I put my earphones in with shaking hands and lay down. The first track to come on shuffle was _Winter Kiss _by 'Young Guns'. There was one line of the song that caused my eyes to fly open, that caused me to throw myself out of bed, that caused me to grab a Biro and spend the rest of the night scrawling that line into the wall behind my bed.

_I want to sleep but I hear voices._

The next morning my parents were furious, ordered me to paint over the words. I never did. I think they realised in the end that it comforted me somehow. My parents just thought I was a troubled child. Dean could hide it, could lock his true emotions behind doors. So I took to writing anything that meant something to me on that wall. It became the Writing Wall. I decided to recreate that wall here, to make it feel more like home, and to get things off my mind. Before we moved I went to the art room at school and used the large stencils to write that line onto black card. I cut the letters out and I've now stuck them up for all the house to see.

It's late, the house is relatively quiet. Everyone living is asleep. As for the dead, who knows? And who cares? Tonight I get one night of peace.

I collapse onto my bed, a smile touching my lips, and, putting my earphones in, turn on my 'Sleep' playlist – the only songs that help me fall asleep. I won't need it tonight. But... just in case.

The next morning I awake to sun drifting lazily through the slatted blinds. My limbs feel relaxed, not tight with fear. My eyes open easily, not heavy with exhaustion. Nothing happened.

I roll over and go to put my iPod on the bedside table when I notice that it's paused on one song. Song 12 of the playlist – another Young Guns song. _Stitches_. That's odd, I don't remember pausing the song, which must mean that I had fallen asleep by then.

That's when I notice something else. Writing. On the wall. Writing I never wrote myself. I run my fingers over the black scrawl and catch my breath. It's a line from _Stitches._ One earphone has managed to stay in my ear so I press play and the line on the wall rings out clear and true.

_There's no poetry in my soul, just a list of lies I've told._

My bedroom door flies open and I jump a mile, my heart hammering in my chest like a pneumatic drill, smacking against my rib cage.

"Good, you're awake." It's Dean, and my heart struggles to get back to its normal rhythm. "Get up, we're exploring."

"What? How old are you, five? You almost gave me a heart attack. Go away, Dean."

He grins and strides towards me. "That crap won't work on me, I'm not dead."

"Ha ha, very funny- get off! You're so annoying!"

"You're so annoying!" Dean mimics as he grabs my arm and hauls me out of bed. "Our one night of peace is over and I don't know about you but that greatly upsets me to the point in which I'm considering to break the whole 'prodigal son' thing I have going for me." I roll my eyes at him but he continues. 'Prodigal son' my arse. "So we're getting a head start and going on a ghost hunt. Starting with the basement."

I yank my arm from Dean's grip. It was all well and good making light of it until he mentioned the basement. I'd been trying not to think about it. Hardly any houses back in England have basements; you're more likely to have an attic. Think about it: if there's something scary living in the attic it has to noisily let the ladder down and clamber down the rungs. If there's something scary living in the basement, all it has to do is tiptoe up the stairs and hey presto, you're good as dead.

"I'm not going in the basement," I say firmly.

"Oh don't be such a poof," Dean replies, grabbing my arm again and dragging me from the room. I continue to protest when Dean suddenly turns on me, spinning around with a look like thunder in his eyes. His voice shakes as he speaks, and that's when I realise he's afraid too. "The sooner we get this sorted out the sooner we can have normal lives for once. And the sooner you can sleep at night."

He's right, I know he is, but I still follow him to the basement door half-heartedly. Violet said there are spirits who want to hurt us, so where better for them to lurk than in the basement? I wonder where Violet is, hoping she'll turn up. I glance around us, but there's no sign of her.

Dean opens the basement door and a smell like wet dog drifts up to greet us. I wrinkle my nose. Dean begins to descend the stairs and I follow him, trying to listen out for any sound of movement but the roar of blood in my ears is deafening. The light is murky and the sparse rays of sunlight from the little windows are dim, dust particles swirling, tornadoes of decay. When we reach the bottom of the stairs we stop to listen.

A sudden crack, a pop of light, and spots are dancing in my vision. Laughter in unison, a blur of colour, and before I know what I'm doing my feet are tripping over themselves to run blind in the opposite direction. It's only when the spots are gone from my eyes that I realise I'm running deeper into the basement. I stop to regain my breath, cursing myself for being such a coward. I turn to leave-

-only to walk straight into someone. I gasp and recoil, skittering backwards, and a voice says, "Whoa, hey, sorry."

A boy awkwardly holds his hands in the air in apology. I stare at him and he stares back. He looks a little nervous, a rabbit caught in the headlights, and I try and relax my expression. I must look demented. His hair is shaggy and blonde, made darker, dirtier by the lack of light. His clothes are baggy and a little grungy. He's a 90s kid. He must be dead.

"I'm Tate," he says, still looking awkward, still looking like he doesn't know what to do with himself. I don't know why he's the awkward one; here's me, standing in a cold basement in just my t-shirt and shorts pyjamas. I feel exposed, and I realise it's not just because of what I'm wearing, it's because of his gaze. His eyes are a deep, dark brown, rich like packed earth, grave dirt. But the look in them is a little unsettling.

"Effie," I reply, my voice slightly hoarse. I try not to meet his eyes but I can't help it.

He smiles, almost laughs, and dimples appear in his cheeks. "'Effie'," he repeats. "Is that short for anything?"

I frown, feeling defensive. "No. What's 'Tate' short for? Potato?"

His smile twists and then we both burst out laughing. "I'm sorry," I manage to say.

He waves my apology away. "No, it's okay, I get it. You're scared."

"Pretty much," I reply, with another nervous laugh. I wrap my arms across my stomach, stifling a grumble and staving off the chill in the air.

"Effie!" I hear Dean shout, his voice echoing slightly off the thick, concrete walls.

Tate glances behind him. "Is that your brother?"

"Yeah."

Tate pauses and his smile begins to fade. He doesn't meet my eyes until he says, "You know about us, don't you? The people in this house."

I nod.

"Effie!" Dean calls again, his voice more frantic.

"I have to go," I find myself mumbling and I rush past Tate, unable to stand another second in this basement. The atmosphere is oppressive, the walls feel as though they're forcing their way closer to me, trying to suffocate, to push the remaining air from my tired lungs.

"It's gonna be okay!" I hear Tate call, but I'm already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**Tate**

"It's gonna be okay!"

I can make everything okay. For the new family, for Violet. I can do this.

Maybe then Ben will talk to me again, and I know it's a long shot but maybe Violet will talk to me too. I can wait.

But now I have a chance to set things right. Everything could go back to the way it was, to the way it should be.

I watch Effie rejoin her brother. Her pale skin glows in the dark of the basement, delicate flesh. They talk for a second and something in the boy's posture relaxes. He throws an arm around his sister's shoulders and they walk up the stairs together, but not before Effie glances into the darkness, looking for something. Her eyes meet mine.

**Dean**

Effie emerges from the darkness and I sigh in relief. To be honest, trudging upstairs to inform my parents that I've lost my sister in the basement isn't my idea of a nice conversation over breakfast.

"Why the hell did you run off like that?" I ask Effie, my voice a little high and breathy with panic.

"Sorry," Effie replies with a note of irritation.

The hairs on my arms are still stood to attention like soldiers, but I force my muscles to relax. I muster a laugh and say, "I guess we're just a bit out of practice."

Effie smiles, but it wavers slightly at the corners. She's still shaken. "Yeah, I guess so."

I watch her for a second. Watch the way her gaze is skatty, darting from object to object and back to me again. "Come on," I say, reaching out a protective arm to direct Effie up the stairs, "let's get some breakfast."

Effie smiles again, but it's absent in her eyes. "Hey, it seems we're not the only twins in the house then," I add, referring to the twin boys who streaked past us, sending Effie running.

"Yeah," she replies, her voice hollow like her smile. She glances back into the basement, looks right into the darkness, before we leave the oppression.

Mum and Dad are in the kitchen. I can hear them arguing over exactly how the cooker works before we're even in the room.

As we enter, Mum and Dad pause for a second to glance at us. "Morning," Dad calls, cheerier than usual. It's the prospect of a new house, a new country; that's what makes him happy. Well, it's alright for some. "We're christening the new house with a Full English breakfast," he continues, waving a frying pan at us.

"If we can work the cooker," Mum quips, frowning at him.

"I'm telling you..." The argument continues and I block it out, taking a seat at the kitchen island. Effie mechanically follows suit. I don't even have to properly look at her to know that her mind is elsewhere. Something's happened. Something she's not telling me.

"Perhaps I could help?"

I jump a mile, almost toppling right off my stool. I grip the side of the island with white knuckles. Standing in the doorway is an elderly woman with dark red hair like rosewood, immaculately styled. She's wearing a black and white maids outfit, starched and pristine. For a brief moment, her gaze languidly rolls to me, and I catch a glimpse of one, milky eye before she returns her attention to my parents.

"Oh, Moira," Mum begins, ever so slightly startled, but she conceals it well, "that would be a big help."

I turn to Effie and mouth 'who the fuck is she?'. Effie shrugs and leans closer to whisper, "Whoever she is, she's definitely dead."

"Really?" I take another look at Moira as she talks our parents through on how to set the cooker. Well Moira is definitely showing herself, else Mum and Dad wouldn't be able to see her. But what's her game? Why would you want to spend your existence as a ghost cleaning up other people's mess? Well, I suppose you have to do something with your time in the in-between.

By the time breakfast is done, Moira has wandered off elsewhere to begin the housework, but not before fixing me in her gaze with that unnerving blind eye. It's enough to put me off my breakfast. Naturally, I eat the fried eggs with a slight grimace.

We have a long day ahead of us.

**Effie**

After breakfast, I hurriedly excuse myself, eager to put another floor between me and the basement. It's like I can still feel Tate's eyes on me, roving my skin. I know now that it was too much to wish for a house with amiable ghosts, let alone a house without any ghosts at all. Our parents have always loved old houses, houses with mystery and intrigue and history. You think that it would be more difficult to find a place like that in LA, a city nowhere near as old as our native Nottingham. But still, somehow Mum and Dad manage to find a house with a bunch of twisted ghosts.

Is this ever going to end?

I have to resist sprinting up the stairs in case Dean really starts to notice that something is up. That's the problem with Dean; he knows when something is different. It's like he can feel it in the air, a charge of emotion.

Sometimes, I wish I could block out my emotions.

I walk into my room to find Violet perched on the edge of my bed, her head craned to look at my cut-out letters on the wall. She turns to look at me as I freeze in the doorway.

"That line pretty much sums up what it's like to live in this house," she comments.

I smirk in agreement and go to my dresser, choosing my outfit for the day. We have one day to get settled before we start school tomorrow. I'm dreading it. Anyone would dread starting a new school, but in a new country it's even worse. Dean, on the other hand, is just annoyed that he has to go through another year of high school. Back in England, we'd be starting sixth form. It makes me think about all the friends we've left behind and a pang of homesickness tugs at my stomach.

But there is one thing on my mind that overrides that feeling, that dominates my consciousness and itches the tip of my tongue, incessant.

"Who's Tate?"

I spin around to face Violet, but not before I see the emotion that washes across her face, quickly replaced by nonchalance. She shrugs. "Just some guy who's trapped here like the rest of us."

She's lying. I can tell. You can't lie to a liar.

She must notice that I'm working myself up to say something because she hurriedly interjects, "Look, just forget him. It's probably better to try and stay out of everyone's way as much as possible."

I sigh and rub my hand across my forehead. It comes away shiny with perspiration.

"Did you write this?"

"What?" I look up to see Violet peering at the writing on my wall, her brow furrowed.

_There's no poetry in my soul, just a list of lies I've told._

"No, I... I thought you... I mean, I just presumed that you wrote it." My words are so filled with doubt that they drop from my mouth like stones.

Violet looks at me, her mouth aghast, her brow still creased with thought. Then, without a word, she rises from the bed and hurries from the room.

**Violet**

I have to talk to Tate. Whatever he's planning, whatever he thinks he's doing, it has to stop now. I know I told him that this was goodbye, the end of me and him, but I'm the only one in this house who can get through to him.

I can't let this family suffer the same fate as us.


End file.
